A child in Ring C asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Catalina Escobar finishes a instrument: “A last field.” It shows in the commons through the week.
Ramiro Lockhart chooses Medical — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Morale index reads 82. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The schools release Noor Jaber to Drive. Generation 1 takes up its tools.
Middle watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Sixteen years for Zofia Shen, who signs to Ecology on the night watch and is given a locker, a sash, and a schedule.
The circle has answered. Light rations. A tenth off every tray — noticed, grumbled at, borne.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Nneka Chukwu has made a play called “Kept Door, Outward Orchard.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Efua Quaye finishes a play: “Ladder for the Distant Garden.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 16, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Ifedayo Ndiaye has made a play called “Seven Skys Sleeping.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
Atmosphere Processing back in service. The old hands say it sounds better than before; the instruments say it sounds the same.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
Carmen Cárdenas has made a play called “Winters of Year 16.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
The compartment is sealed and the name is read: Soledad Terrazas, 59. The ship holds 1047.
Atmosphere processing faults at brightening. Scrubber margins hold; the smell of the ship changes, and everyone notices.
Finn Gustavsson and Opal Merriweather, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
“What the Lantern Carries,” a mural by Ernest Carmody, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Hydroponics.
First Light festival. The children are lifted to the eyepiece one by one to see where they are going.
The schools release Lärä Fossum to Hydroponics. Generation 1 takes up its tools.
Bruno Fuentes, 64, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
The question is put to the wider circle: Rationing. The ship asks; Earth answers, in its own long time.
12.30 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,575 thousand to go.
Morale index reads 84. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
Morale index reads 85. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The schools release Octavio Domínguez to Hydroponics. Generation 1 takes up its tools.
Chitra Joshi has made a quilt called “What the Hymn Leaves.” Asked what it means, she says it means about nine years of evenings.
12.31 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,612 thousand to go.
“Quiet Season, Sunless Root,” a quilt by Annika Aaberg, is unveiled on the night watch to the particular applause of Command.
Morale index reads 84. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
12.31 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 89,621 thousand to go.
All boards green. I count 1049 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
A first shift for Nora Thorvaldsen, sixteen: sanitation engineer, Life Systems. The badge is printed fresh.
The youngest aboard is now Kavita Pillai, minutes old, asleep. 1049 souls.
Year 16 of the voyage begins. The oldest bottle of orchard wine that can be spared is opened. It is always described as "improving."
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 15, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Margaret Carmody, 57, generation 0, is carried down the spinal corridor feet-first, as the custom is.
Census check: 1049 souls, 68 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
A new poem from Fyodor Wisniewski — “Roots of Ring C.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
Kirill Pavlenko has made a mural called “Bright Anchor, Late Season.” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
The star ahead brightens by amounts only I can love: another week, another hundred-millionth of a magnitude.
Night watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Born on the night watch: Leandro Pemberton, generation 1. The ship holds 1049 souls tonight.
Arthur Draycott has died at 35, far too early. Hydroponics stands down a shift in grief.
“Outward Watch, Whole Door,” a quilt by Leandro Zambrano, is unveiled on the first watch to the particular applause of Fabrication.